My friend and I were listening to great music in a cozy, country western bar in Austin, Little Longhorn Saloon. It was one of those places that are too small to dance, but one or two couples always push a table away and boot scoot anyway. The bar signs read “Be nice or leave” and “No dancing on the bar in your spurs.” In Texas, you can assume the signs aren’t just jokes. Especially the dancing on the bar in spurs part. I’m not saying I’ve done that, I’m just saying.
The bar countertop is also small and crowded. We grabbed open bar stools, ordered red wine — we’re bougie like that — and settled in to listen. My friend has this thing about talking with each other, over meeting men, even though we’re both single. I’m usually good with that. Who are you gonna meet in bars anyway? Other than nice people like us. My problem is, I’m too nice.
For one thing, I smile and laugh a lot. Omar of Omar and the Howlers said from the stage once, “I see your bright smile all the way from up here.” Guys have come through the bar to me and said, “I followed your laugh across the room.”
When someone talks to me, I tend to answer. That’s how I was raised. This particular night, a guy sidled up next to us and struck up a conversation. I don’t remember what about. I chatted briefly, and introduced him to my friend.
The other thing to know about me is, I include people. You’re just as likely to wind up talking to five or six people when you’re with me, as to only me. I’m a rolling party.
Photo by Alexander Gamanyuk on Unsplash
My friend said hello to him, asked him a couple of questions, and it all seemed cool. Until he went to the bathroom.
She turned to me and asked, “Carol, didn’t you see the blood on his hands?”
“What?? No, I didn’t notice,” I blurted.
He returned and she…just asked him,
“So, why do you have blood on your hands?”
He looked flustered, glanced down at this hands, and mumbled something about having worked on his car right before coming into the bar.
That’s not enough for her, “You mean you aren’t a butcher or something?”
He laughed — possibly a guilty laugh — and said no. He quickly left the bar. Presumably toward that car he’d been bleeding on.
“You really didn’t see the blood on his hands?” she asked me again.
“Nope.”
“Oh lord, what am I going to do with you? It’s a wonder you’ve lived this long,” she sighed.
Here’s the takeaway. If you’re someone who’s too nice in bars, be sure to take your more observant friend with you.
Especially if they are also a little more suspicious of people with blood on their hands than you are.
On the other hand, what if he had blood on his hands from saving a deer on the highway, or birthing a calf? It is a country-western bar after all. I’m giving him the benefit of the doubt. Don’t tell my suspicious friend.
A big cowgirl round of applause for Amy Sea, an editor without blood on her hands, who says she’ll accompany me as the suspicious friend if we’re ever in the same place at the same time.
—
This post was previously published on MEDIUM.COM.
***
You Might Also Like These From The Good Men Project
 |
 |
 |
 |
Join The Good Men Project as a Premium Member today.
All Premium Members get to view The Good Men Project with NO ADS.
A $50 annual membership gives you an all access pass. You can be a part of every call, group, class and community.
A $25 annual membership gives you access to one class, one Social Interest group and our online communities.
A $12 annual membership gives you access to our Friday calls with the publisher, our online community.
Register New Account
Need more info? A complete list of benefits is here.
—
Photo credit: iStock.com
